Drifting Toward Purpose: Reflections on Friendship, Art, and Living with Intention

Pen and ink minimalist contemporary black and white fine art by Doug Ashby

Pen and ink contemporary fine art by Doug Ashby

Memory is a powerful force in our lives. It shapes us in countless ways. Nearly eighteen years ago, I lost a dear friend, someone I respected and from whom I learned a great deal. His name was Kevin, and he was one of the most passionate creatives I have ever had the pleasure of calling friend. Kevin was a drummer at his core, yet the drums were only a vehicle for the immense energy inside him. I learned many things from Kevin during our time together, and in many ways, I am still learning. Toward the end of his life, he underwent profound change. Guided by the love of his wife, he shed the vices that had once consumed his passion and began to channel that energy into his art.

This artwork, with its homage to reflective stillness, serves as a reminder of the lessons I learned from Kevin at the height of our friendship. What follows is a meditation on those lessons, and how they continue to shape me.

I met Kevin in 1989, our freshman year at High Point University. At that time, he was much like the fictional Tasmanian Devil, moving through life with a fast-paced fury fueled by excess. He smoked heavily, drank deeply, and allowed his vices to exert outsized influence. And yet, he was exciting to be around. I admired his confidence and swagger; there was never a dull moment in his presence. We bonded quickly over our mutual love for art and music. Within a short time, we formed a band, beginning a creative partnership that would nurture my spirit from then on.

Some of my best memories from those years are of playing together. I will never forget how we would lock in, rhythm and energy flowing between us, carrying the moment forward with an electric sense of purpose. In those moments I felt, for the first time, the calling toward art as my true path.

But passion, when burning too hot, often drifts into restlessness. Within a year and a half, Kevin left High Point. He wanted me to join him, but I was not as open to adventure. For a time this caused tension, but our friendship endured. Even now, I remain cautious in ways Kevin was not.

As the years passed, Kevin began to confront the ways his vices had held him back from his true calling. Through love, he began to change. He fell deeply in love with his wife, and through that bond, he channeled his immense energy into a life that was more intentional, contemplative, and quiet, all in service of his art.

Shortly before his death, Kevin invited me on a canoe trip to Jordan Lake. His challenge to me that day was simple: to allow myself to be still, adrift on the water, open to the moment. There was silence, and there was life. The lake, though quiet, teemed with energy that revealed itself only when we were fully present. In that moment, time collapsed. Past and present dissolved into each other as the earth, water, and sky enveloped us. It was perhaps the first time in my life I allowed myself such an experience, and it continues to guide me as an artist.

I can recall countless times when Kevin and I would listen to music or wander through a gallery, and he would point out subtle details, nearly imperceptible at first glance. These were elements hidden deep within the work, small things without which the whole would be incomplete. That was Kevin’s gift: he could uncover the subtle aspects that carried meaning.

This was never done in a way that made me feel lacking. Kevin never acted as the kind of teacher who diminishes a pupil. Rather, he shared his joy in discovering beauty, inviting me to see it too. Art, for Kevin, was always a lived experience, full of hidden gems and quiet truths waiting to be uncovered. Through him, I learned to open myself to those subtleties.

Toward the end of his life, Kevin spoke often of what it meant to live intentionally. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he was reaching for, and truthfully, I still don’t. Yet I could hear the conviction in his voice. He believed deeply that this practice was essential, not just for himself but for anyone who embraced it.

Perhaps for Kevin, living intentionally meant shaping daily practices that aligned his life with passion and purpose. Choosing silence and presence. Living more deeply within each moment. Offering his art in service to others. Sometimes I wonder if this pursuit was also a way for him to atone for past mistakes. Like all of us, Kevin made poor choices at times, and they sometimes hurt those he loved. Perhaps his commitment to intentional living was a way of striving toward a more just and balanced life.

I may never know exactly what Kevin discovered in that practice, but I have come to believe that its essence is simple. Each step of life is an opportunity, and it is up to us to decide how we walk it.

I know with certainty that without Kevin, I would not be the artist I am today, nor the artist I am still becoming. His life, lived deeply within passion and gifts and in service to others, continues to inspire me. Too often I fail to pause and reflect on the lessons he left me. Writing this now is itself a reminder that I must return to those conversations, even if only within myself.

The world makes endless demands of us. This is undeniable and unchanging. Yet Kevin showed me another way: that a life lived with intention, aligned with passion and tempered by purpose, is where true contentment can be found.

I know I am fortunate. Fortunate to have had such a remarkable friend. Even in death, Kevin continues to instruct and inspire. I return often to that day on Jordan Lake, one of the last I spent with him, and find that its meaning deepens with time. My memory of it, carried for nearly twenty-five years, still feels like a message I am only beginning to unravel.

Kevin stopped chasing dreams the moment he began living within his calling. He no longer sought fame or fortune as a musician, as he once had in youth. Instead, he simply lived within his gift. He constructed habits that allowed him to do so, and he lived with intention.

This is the enduring lesson Kevin left me.

As always, I hope you enjoy the art and the writing. I would love to hear your thoughts, so please leave a comment. In doing so, perhaps these lessons can live further and travel farther.

Thanks,

Doug

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